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-. The -- 

Whitman 
Massacre 




Matilda Imager Delaney 

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A Survivor's Recollections 

of the 

WHITMAN MASSACRE 

by 

Matilda J. Sa^er Delaney 




Sponsored by Esther Reed Chapter 

Daughters o£ the American Revolution 

Spokane, Washington 



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Copyright 1920 



g)aA570220 



JUN-I 1920 



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The following modest recital of a life which has covered 
much of the most interesting period of pioneering in this part of 
the country is of the greatest interest and value to all who know 
and love the Northwest. Few lives have been so full of such 
varied experiences and the clear and poignant recital of the 
massacre at Waillatpu is of the greatest historical importance. 
It is so vividly told that it should carry its own convincing truth 
down the years, as the basis of all writing in connection with the 
labors of that splendid type of missionaries, Dr. and Mrs. 
Whitman. 

NETTA W. PHELPS, 
(Mrs. M. A. Phelps) 

Ex-State Regent, Daughters 

of the American Revolution. 

FANNIE SMITH GOBLE, 
(Mrs. Geo. H. Goble) 
State Regent. 

LURLINE WILLIAMS, 
(Mrs. L. F. Williams) 

Regent Esther Reed Chapter. 




Matilda J. Sager Delaney 



FOREWORD 

The thought of fostering care seems to have remained with 
this "survivor" since her days with the Whitmans. 

Forgiving innocent ones for the atrocious acts of their kin- 
dred upon her own brothers, Mrs. Delaney became a benefactor 
of the Indians. Before the apportionment of their lands the 
Coeurd 'Alene squaws and children suffered great hardships. 
To them the Farmington hotel kitchen was a haven of warmth 
and plenty. They started home cheered and fed with bundles 
of food to tie on their ponies. The Delaney living room is the 
only place I have seen Indian women and girls light hearted 
and chatty. They loved to linger to sing for their hostess. Mrs. 
Delaney's hospitality extended to clergymen of all creeds. Her's 
has been a life of hard but generous service. "Not to be min- 
istered unto but to minister" seems to have been the life motto 
of this woman reared in the wilds. 

In 1881 General and Mrs. T. R. Tannatt came to the North- 
west when the latter began a search for historical data; she 
sought pioneers and recorded their statements for comparison, 
in an effort to obtain truth. Opportunity gave her acquaintance 
with Mr. Gray, author of History of Oregon, Rev. Gushing Eels, 
the Spalding family, several survivors of the Whitman massa- 
cre, and pioneer army and railway officers from whom she 
gleaned information which later assisted her in writing the 
booklet, "Indian Battles of the Inland Empire in 1858." published 
by the D. A. R. 

In 1887 she stopped at the Farmington hotel owned by Mrs. 
Delaney, and continued an acquaintance with her until 1920. She 
said Mrs. Delaney's account of the massacre never varied, and in 
discussion of points of difference with other survivors Mrs. De- 
laney's clear description and logical reasoning invariably con- 
vinced the others that she must be correct, while her clear remem- 
brance of subsequent events, known to them both for more than 
three decades, strengthened Mrs. Tannatt's belief in the accuracy 
of her earUer impressions. 

Mrs. Tannatt often urged this witness of the heartrending 
tragedy to publish her recollections, and had the pleasure of read- 
ing the manuscript for this narrative which she said contained 
the most comprehensive and truthful description of the Whitman 
massacre she had seen. She consented to write the Foreword, 
but before doing so was summoned by her Heavenly Father. 

MIRIAM TANNATT MERRIAM. 




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A SURVIVOR'S RECOLLECTIONS 
of the 

WHITMAN MASSACRE 

by 

MATILDA J. SAGER DELANEY 



In the spring of 1844 we started to make the journey across 
the plains with ox teams. I was born in 1839, October i6th, near 
St. Joseph, Mo., which was a very small town on the extreme 
frontier, right on the Missouri River, with just a few houses. 
My father's name was Henry Sager. He moved from Virginia 
to Ohio, then to Indiana and from there to Missouri. My mother's 
name was Naomi Carney-Sager. In the month of April, 1844, my 
father got the Oregon fever and we started West for the Oregon 
Territory. Our teams were oxen and for the start we went to 
Independence, the rendezvous where the companies were made 
up to come across the plains. There were six children then — one 
was bom on the journey, making seven in all. 

The men of the company organized in a military manner, 
having their captain and other officers, for they were going 
through the Indian country and guards had to be put out for the 
protection of the travellers and to herd the stock. The immigration 
of '43 was piloted through by Dr. Whitman and ours was the 
second immigration across the mountains. The road was only 
a trail and was all Indian territory at that time, from the Missouri 
River to the Rocky Mountains. We had to ferry streams, some- 
times with canoes fastened together and the wagons put on them ; 
and the Indians rowed us across the rivers in some places. The 
mountains were steep and sometimes we had to unyoke our cattle 
and drive them down, letting the wagons down by ropes. The 
Captain of our company was named William Shaw. There were 
vast herds of buffalo on the plains and wandering bands of 
Indians. We had to guard the cattle at night by taking turns. 
After we started across the plains we traveled slowly ; and one 
day in getting out of the wagon my oldest sister caught her dress 
and her leg was broken by the wheel running over it. There was 
no doctor in our company, but there was a German doctor by 
the name of Dagan in the following company and he and my 
father fixed up the leg and from that time on the old doctor 
stayed with us and helped. My father was taken sick with the 

Page Seven 



mountain fever and he finally died and was buried on the banks 
of the Green River in Wyoming. His last request was that 
Captain Shaw take charge of us and see us safe through to the 
Whitman station. He thought that Avas as far as we could go 
that winter. Twenty-six days later my mother died. She made 
the same request of Captain Shaw and called us around her 
and told my brothers to always stay with us and keep us together 
— meaning the girls of the family. Dr. Dagan came on and helped 
to care for us with the boys' help. When my mother died, my 
injured sister could walk only with the help of a crutch. Mother 
was wrapped in a blanket and buried by the side of the road. 
So the Captain and his wife looked after us and the other immi- 
grants showed their concern for the orphans by taking an interest 
in us. A kind woman, Mrs. Eads, took the tiny baby and the 
big-hearted travelers shared their last piece of bread with us. 
We finally arrived at Dr. Whitman's station on the 17th day 
of October, 1844, seven months from the Missouri River to the 
Whitman station. It was a long time ! 

Mrs. Whitman wanted to keep the girls, but she did not care 
for the boys. Dr. Dagan went on the Willamette valley and left 
us there. Doctor Whitman finally concluded he would keep the 
whole seven of us and took us in charge. We lived there three 
years. I might say something of the home incidents. The first 
thing Mrs. Whitman did was to cut our hair, wash and scrub us, 
as we were very much in need of a cleaning up ; then she gave 
us something to eat and the bread seemed very dark to us — it 
was unbolted flour. Mrs. Eads, who had been caring for my 
baby sister, five months old, arrived three days later and then 
Mrs. Whitman took the motherless little one in charge and she 
grew to be a fine baby. Everything was so diflFerent from what 
we had been used to. The Whitmans were New England people 
and we were taken into their home and they began the routine 
of teaching and disciplining us in the old Puritan way of raising 
and training children — very diflFerent to the way of the plains. 
They hired a teacher and the immigrant families all had the 
privilege of sending their children to this school during the 
winter months. We had a church and Sunday school every 
Sabbath and we had our family worship every morning and 
evening. We had certain things to do at a certain hour. We 
never had anything but corn meal mush and milk for our suppers 
and they were very particular in our being very regular in all 
our habits of eating and sleeping. 

When the spring came all the immigrants left and went on 
down to the Willamette valley — the families who had wintered 
at the Mission leaving the Sager children behind with the big- 
hearted Dr. and Mrs. Whitman. We had our different kinds 
of work to do. We had to plant all the gardens and raise vege- 

Page Eight 



tables for the immigrants who came in for supplies. We got 
up early in the morning and we each had our piece of garden 
to weed and tend. We had to wipe the dishes and mop the 
floors. We had verses of scripture to learn each morning which 
we had to repeat at the family worship. The seven verses would 
be our Sunday school lesson. We took turns in giving our pas- 
sages of Scripture. Everything was done in routine. Some- 
times we had to walk in the afternoon, Mrs. Whitman would 
go with us ; we would gather specimens and she would teach 
us botany. During the summer when the Indians went to the 
buffalo grounds, we were alone and we looked forward to the 
coming of the immigrants as one of the great events of our life. 
Sometimes in the summer we went bathing in the river. We 
would get the Indian girls to teach us to swim. Once, Mis- 
sionary and Mrs. Eels came down from Walker's Prairie, having 
with them a girl by the name of Emma Hobson, and the latter 
went in bathing with us children; she could not swim and the 
current swept her down the river. She caught on an overhanging 
bush and an Indian took her out of the river and put a blanket 
around her. Mrs. Eels gave the alarm. We always called that 
"Emma's place." We cut water melons in two and strung them 
together and would play for hours with those water melon boats, 
having a great deal of enjoyment. Still, discipline was strict 
and when we were told to do a thing, no matter what, we went. 

Once a month we had a missionary meeting and we would 
sing missionary hymns and the Whitmans would read extracts 
from missionary papers. They took the Sandwich Island paper, 
the editor being the Rev. Damon. There was a man at the 
Mission by the name of O'Kelley; he was an Irishman, and he 
went with the Doctor who had to go out and give the Indians 
a lesson in farming. They took all we girls in a wagon and this 
man O'Kelley drove. Dr. Whitman showed the Indians how 
to cultivate their little patches. There was not very much cul- 
tivation about anything, however. O'Kelley was to cook the 
dinner. He had a big chunk of beef to boil and he told us he 
would give us a big dinner — would give us some "drap" dump- 
lings ; so we became very curious to know what "drap" dumplings 
were. No doubt they were "drap" dumplings, because they 
went to the bottom of the kettle and staid there until we fished 
them out. We put in the day there. Returning, my brother 
took me on his horse and some of the others rode in the wagon. 
We had riding mares and they had colts. When we came to 
the Walla Walla River the colts began floating down stream 
and we had an awful time, but I hung on. I had on an old 
sunbonnet, but I lost it. We finally got safely home. 

The summer of '46 the Doctor went down into the Wil- 
lamette valley and while he was down there my sister and I 

Page Nine 



drove the cows off in the morning to pasture and while we were 
roaming along we looked for different kinds of herbs that the 
Indians eat ; we got hold of something and started to eat it. 
I told sister it was poison, but she said if the Indians could eat 
it, it was all right. I ate some of it, became very ill, but managed 
to get home, falling just outside the door. They carried me in 
and found I had been eating wild parsnip and was very sick. 
L/ife was dispaired of and Mrs. Whitman sent a messenger to 
the Willamette valley to bring the Doctor home. He came on 
horseback as fast as he could, finding me somewhat better. I 
was able to go around the house, feebly. Everyone was eager 
to see the Doctor, but he hardly looked to the right or left, 
coming quickly to me, took me up in his arms and then went 
out and gave them all a greeting. He seemed to be so anxious 
about me. I always remember that. 

Once in a while we would have a picnic. Mrs. Whitman 
would fix up some food and we would go picnicing in the woods 
and do different things to employ our time. It was a lonesome 
place away back there, shut in the hills. 

In the spring of '46 we hitched up the wagon and thought 
we would go with Mrs. Spalding and one of the Walker boys 
on a trip. We went where the city of Walla Walla now stands. 
There were just four lone cabins there; they had large fireplaces 
and big stick chimneys. We only took provisions for the day. 
We turned the oxen out to graze and when we were ready to 
go home they could not be found. My brother went to to look for 
them, but being unable to find them, we had to stay there all night. 
We had a few blankets, for we always took some with us even 
on a short trip. When it came time to go to bed we had our 
prayers. Mrs. Whitman had taught us to memorize Scripture 
and the children took turns in repeating the verses, "Let not 
your hearts be troubled." We had songs and prayers and then 
laid down and went to sleep. The next day we found a large 
fish in the creek and we had some of it for dinner. My brother 
came and took us home and we called what is now known as 
Walla Walla, the "hog City." 

Some eight years ago I was in the city of Walla Walla and 
standing in the door of a drug store, looked down the main 
street. As I looked down the street where the creek makes a 
turn and where there are many bushes of alder and willow, I 
saw what I saw in '46. There were some cabins down in there 
and I said to the proprietor, a friend of mine, "It seems to me 
it looks familiar." 

"Well," he said, "you are right. It is supposed they were 
put there for trapping and quarters by the Hudson's Bay men, 
but it is not certain." 

Page Ten 



In '46 all this Northwest territory was jointly occupied by 
English and Americans and it was not settled. Dr. Whitman 
and Mr. Spalding with their wives were the first homeseekers 
to cross the Rockies and it was just a string of Hudson's Bay 
posts all the way. Aside from the four missionary stations there 
were no other American settlements, save in the Willamette val- 
ley. Vancouver, Washington, was a Hudson's Bay post then. 

We used to go to the Indian lodges sometimes. Doctor would 
talk to them about the Bible and on a few occasions we were 
invited to a feast where they ate with big horn spoons. Once 
a year the Indians went to the buffalo hunting grounds and 
came back with jerked or dried meat which we enjoyed very 
much. They also gathered huckleberries in the Blue Moun- 
tains and we bought and dried large quantities of berries for 
our own use. The Doctor had quite large fields of corn and the 
crows were very troublesome; so we children had to go up and 
down the rows ringing bells to scare them away. That was one 
of the things that kept us busy. He had a large family and the 
immigrants came there for supplies. He had to make use of a 
primitive custom in saving his crops ; the grain was harvested by 
sickles and tramped out by the horses and winnowed. He had 
a mill out of which came the unbolted flour ; we never had white 
flour. There were some sheep and some beef cattle. Dr. Whit- 
man always sent the immigrants on to the Willamette valley as 
fast as he could ; but many were obliged to remain at the Mission 
on account of their oxen having given out and he had to feed 
from fifty to seventy-five persons during the winter months. 
One of the jobs that I disliked in the fall was when he pulled up 
the white beans and every child was given a tin cup and told to 
pick up these beans with their hands. Every bean had to be saved. 

We also had hogs. We raised a few, but never ate the 
pork, reserving that for the immigrants. The Doctor furnished 
them with meat, flour and vegetables through the winter and 
what work there was to be done they helped with, though there 
was little to be done at that season of the year; looking after 
the stock that was turned out and getting up a little firewood was 
about all that they could do for the Doctor. 

I can never forget the Sunday services and the Sunday school 
held in the Whitman home. The first time I ever heard the 
song "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" ; it was sung by an 
old Baptist believer at the Whitman house. 

In the fall of '45 a family named Johnson came, who had 
a young daughter eighteen or nineteen years of age and Mrs. 
Whitman hired her to help with the family work ; she also studied 
and the Doctor and his wife taught her all they could. The 
Doctor also treated her mother, who was paralyzed. This woman's 

Page Eleven 



husband would carry his wife in his arms to the evening meet- 
ings, place her in a chair and then all would join in "Come Thou 
i^ount of Every Blessing." The daughter, Miss Johnson, instead 
of going into the valley with her family went to Lapwai and 
worked for Mrs. Spalding, and v/as there at the time of the 
Massacre. Mrs. Whitman used to go to Fort Walla Walla to 
make little visits. Sometimes she took one child and sometimes 
another and once she took me. It was a great treat to be allowed 
to go so far as Fort Walla Walla, right on the Columbia River. 
When the boats came in sight of the Fort,t hey were saluted by 
the firing of a cannon. I was frightened. I had never before 
heard a cannon and I held on to Mrs. Whitman. She told me to 
have no fear for they were only firing to salute the boats. 

Once they sent me to the river for water and I became badly 
frightened. I raced to the house and tried to tell how this queer 
animal acted and how I felt ; they thought it was some wild 
animal and my brother went down with his gun, to find it was 
only a huge toad. Mrs. Whitman taught us the love of flowers. 
We each had a flower garden, which we had to weed and care 
for. She had my brothers take a tin case and gather flowers as 
they would ride over the country and on their return would 
press them. She taught us a great deal about things of that kind 
and instilled in us a love of the beautiful. That kept our minds 
busy and cultivated a feeling of reverence for Nature. 

An artist named Kane was sent out by the English govern- 
ment. He took pictures of the Mission. We children were 
cleaning up the yard and varying labor by trying to balance 
the rake on our fingers. Mrs. Whitman reproved us, saying 
she did not want that in the picture. It was customary to ask 
individuals what church denomination they belonged to and one 
day we discovered a man sitting outside the kitchen door; sister 
Elizabeth asked him about his church. He said he was a Meth- 
odist. She came in and told us, "There's a Methodist out there." 
As we had never seen a Methodist, we looked at him in wonder; 
but soon found he was not diflferent from other men, and making 
up our minds he was not dangerous, went and talked with him. 

One year Mrs. Whitman took a trip to visit the Eels and 
Walker Mission, taking my sister with her that time. She tried 
to take us on these little trips to break the monotony and let 
us see somthing besides our home life. We didn't have any 
shoes in those days — we went barefooted. In the winter we 
had moccasins, but they were not much protection. Shoes were 
not to be had in that part of the world. Our dresses for winter 
were made of what was called "baize-cloth," purchased from 
the Hudson's Bay Company. For summer, our dresses were 
made of a material much resembling the hickory shirting so 
much used at that time. We did not have a very big assortment 

Page Twelve 



of clothing; and we wore sunbonnets. Wash-day was a great 
day ; it meant a very early rising, though the boys did most of the 
washing. When it came ironing day, all the youngsters had to 
iron. Mrs. Whitman taught us according to our years, to do 
all kinds of housework. We used to hire the Indians to dig 
our potatoes. They dug them with camas sticks. They were 
good at stealing the best of them, and good at stealing other 
people's water melons. 

I can see in memory that there was a great deal of wild 
rye grass on the surrounding plains. Waillatpu means "rye 
grass." Droves of Indian horses would come through there. 
The grass was so tall I could just see their manes and tails. 
The land is now under cultivation. The wolves were very plenti- 
ful and one winter — '45-6 — they became so poor and starved 
they would come right up to the door hunting for food. The 
Walla Walla River froze over, so that holes had to be cut in 
the ice for the sheep to obtain water. Some of the sheep fell in. 
One day we came down from the school for our dinner and in the 
kitchen the Doctor had five sheep, warming them up. He had 
rescued them from the water, but Mrs. Whitman was very indig- 
nant that he had turned the kitchen into a sheep pen. 

In November of 1847 many immigrants had gathered at the 
Mission, intending to winter there. Measles had broken out 
among them and many of the Indians had also become victims 
of this disease and the Doctor was very busy attending them 
all. On the 27th of the month, Mr. Spalding, who had come 
to the Whitman mission on business, went with Dr. Whitman 
to visit the sick at Umatilla and to remain over night. The 
Doctor was very worried because there were so many sick at his 
Mission, having ten of his own family down and Mrs. Whitman 
much alarmed about the children. Some of them were very low — 
especially my sister Louise and Helen Marr Meek. Leaving Mr. 
Spalding at Umatilla, the Doctor started for home, meeting 
Frank Sager on the way, who had been sent by Mrs. Whitman 
to ask him to return at once because of the critical condition of 
some of the family. After reaching home, he told the boys to 
go to bed and he would sit up and look after the sick. So all 
went upstairs to bed and to sleep, little dreaming of the march 
of events that would blot out splendidly useful lives on the 
morrow and leave the girls of the Sager family again without 
protectors. 



Page Thirteen 



THE MASSACRE 

The morning of the 29th of November, 1847, was a dark, 
dreary day. When I came downstairs I went into the kitchen 
where Dr. Whitman was sitting by the cookstove broiUng steak 
for breakfast. I went and put my arms around his neck and 
kissed him and said, "Good morning, father," as we were taught 
to greet older persons with all politeness ; also to say "Good night" 
to all as we retired. I continued, "I have had such a bad dream 
and I woke frightened." 

He said, "What was it?" 

"I dreamed that the Indians killed you and a lot of others." 

He replied, "That was a bad dream, but I hope it will not 
occur." 

The rest of the family who were able came to the table 
and we had breakfast; there was to be an Indian funeral later 
and the Doctor was to conduct it; so we separated and went to 
our various employments. Many of our family were sick. Those 
able to attend school were by brother Frank and myself, the 
two sons of Mr. Manson, a Hudson's Bay man, who were board- 
ing with the Whitmans for the winter in order to attend the 
Mission school; Eliza Spalding, daughter of the Rev. H. H. 
Spalding, having arrived with her father a few days before; 
David Malin, a half breed. 'Liza was to remain for the winter. 
There were eight members of our family not well enough to 
attend school that morning, and most of the children of the 
immigrant families wintering there were unable to attend. I 
can recall only a few of these children besides those of our own 
family that were at school that morning, it being Monday and 
the first day of the term. School had not been in session before 
that, on account of so much sickness. 

At nine o'clock we went to the schoolroom. Mr. Sanders 
was the teacher. Joe Stansfield went out that morning to drive 
in a beef animal from the range to be killed and brother Frank 
was the one to shoot it down. That made him late for school 
and when he came in school had been in session perhaps half 
an hour. When the hour for the forenoon recess had come, 
the girls had theirs first and we went over to the Doctor's kitchen. 
My brother John, who was just recovering from a severe case 
of measles, was sitting there with a skein of brown twine around 
his knees, winding it into a ball for there were brooms to be 
made soon. We all got a drink of water. John asked me to 

Page Fourteen 



bring him some and after he had drank, said, "Won't you hold 
the twine for me?" 

I replied, " 'Tis only recess, but I will hold it at noon." The 
bell called us then, so we returned to the schoolroom and the 
boys were given their recess. The beef was being dressed in 
the meadow grass, northeast and not far from the school house. 
Three or four white men were at work and a lot of Indians 
were gathered around with their blankets closely wrapped about 
them and it is supposed that they had their guns and tomahawks 
under them. The boys went to where the beef was being dressed ; 
in a short time we heard guns and the boys came running in 
and said the Indians were killing the men at the beef. Mr. 
Sanders opened the door and we looked out. We saw Mr. Rogers 
run from the river to the Mission house and Mr. Kimball run- 
ning with his sleeves rolled up and his arms all bloody; he ran 
around the end of the house to the east door and Mrs. Whitman 
let him in. Mr. Hoffman was fighting with an Indian, swinging 
an ax; he was at the beef, Mr. Sanders ran down the steps, 
probably thinking of his family, but was seized by two Indians ; 
he broke away from them and started for the immigrant house 
where his family were. One Indian on horseback and two on 
foot ran after him and overtook him just as he reached the fence 
to cross it ; they killed him and cut his head off and the next day 
I saw him lying there with his head severed. Mrs. Whitman stood 
at a door which had a sash window, looking at the attack on Mr. 
Sanders. Mr. Rogers came to the door and she let him in ; his 
arm was broken at the wrist. 

Mary Ann Bridger was the only eye-witness of the attack on 
Dr. Whitman and John Sager, which had occurred just before 
the attack on the men at the beef. She ran out of the kitchen 
door and around the house and got into the room where Mrs. 
Whitman and the rest of the family were and cried, "Oh, the 
Indians are killing father and John !" It seems that after attend- 
ing the Indian funeral, the Doctor returned to his home, where, 
soon after, some Indians came into the kitchen and as Dr. Whit- 
man started to go from the living room to the kitchen he said 
to his wife, "Lock the door after me," which she did. In the 
course of conversation regarding the condition of the sick Indian, 
one of those in the kitchen slipped up behind the good man, 
drew a tomahawk from under his blanket and sank it into the 
Doctor's skull. Others attacked John Sager. Their dastardly 
deed accomplished, they left the room, not paying any attention 
to the fact that the little half-breed girl had run out; then they 
joined those around the beef and the general attack immediately 
began. The Doctor was not instantly killed. Mrs. Hays, Mrs. 
Hall and Mrs. Sanders came running to the Mission house for 
protection and Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Hall unbolted the door. 

Page Fifteen 



went into the kitchen and brought the wounded man into the 
Uving room and laid him on the floor, putting a pillow under 
his head. Mrs. Whitman got a towel and some ashes from the 
stove and tried to staunch the blood. He lingered but a short 
time, for the blow of his treacherous adversary had been sure 
and deadly. Mrs. Whitman went to the sash door and looked 
out to see what had become of those around the beef. She 
stood there watching, when Frank Iskalome, a full blooded 
Indian, shot her in the left breast, through the glass. Sister 
Elizabeth was standing beside her and heard her exclaim, "I am 
wounded; hold me tight." The women took hold of her and 
placed her in a chair; then she began to pray that "God would 
save her children that soon were to be orphaned and that her 
dear mother would be given strength to bear the news of 
her death." 

Finally Mr. Rogers suggested that they all go up stairs 
for safety. The only weapon of defense they had was an old, 
broken gun ; but when the Indians would start to come up, as 
they did after a time, some one of them would point it over the 
stairs, and the Indians were afraid to face it. Miss Bewley and 
her brother had staid behind their family, to winter at the Mis- 
sion. She was sick and the Doctor thought he could treat and 
help her; she would not consent to remain unless her brother 
staid also; he was lying in bed in a little room off the kitchen, 
very sick with measles, during the attack upon the Doctor and 
John, but the Indians paid no attention to him at that time. 
Miss Bewley was supposed to assist with the housework and to 
teach the girls some fancy work — knitting, tatting, etc. — the few 
kinds of such work as was done in that day. The Doctor had 
been asked to go up to see her that morning, as she was reported 
to be in a very excited state. He found her weeping bitterly, 
but she would give him no reason as to why she cried so hard. 
He came down and asked Mrs. Whitman to go up and see if 
she could not comfort her. This was early Monday morning. 
Another incident that fixes the day and time as the Monday fore- 
noon recess is this. One of the fixed rules of the Doctor's was 
the hour of the day we took our baths, both summer and winter — 
eleven o'clock in the morning; and as we did not get our usual 
baths on the Saturday previous on account of the sickness of so 
many of the children, Mrs. Whitman was bathing a part of them 
this Monday morning. Some were out of the tub and dressed; 
one was in the tub and some were dressing. Elizabeth said that 
mother came and told them, in a calm tone of voice, to dress 
quickly and then she helped the one who was in the tub to get 
out and assisted her to dress. This is the hour that is fixed in 
my mind beyond a doubt, as the hour of the massacre, regardless 

Page Sixteen 



of the statement of others that it was two or three o'clock in 
the afternoon. 

Now to return to the schoolroom. My brother Frank came 
in with the other boys and shut the door, saying, "We must hide." 
So we climbed to a loft that was above a part of the schoolroom 
and was sometimes used as the teacher's bedroom. It did not 
extend to the ceiling, but was so arranged that it left a hall on 
the south side of the building where there were two windows 
giving light to the main room. There was a fireplace in the 
schoolroom. In order to get up to the loft, we had to set a 
table under the opening and pile books on it; one of the boys 
got up first and then we girls stepped on the books and the boy 
above managed to pull us up, until finally all were up and hidden 
among the rubbish that had accumulated there. Frank told us 
all to ask God to save us and I can see him now, after all the 
years that have passed, as he kneeled and prayed for God to spare 
us. It seemed as though we had been there a long time, when 
the door was opened and Joe Lewis and several Indians came 
into the schoolroom and called "Frank." As they got no answer, 
he called the Manson boys and they answered. Lewis then said 
for all to come down and the two Mansons, about i6 and 17 
years of age, and David Malin, 6 or 7 years, went among the 
first; then the girls. I was afraid to try to jump to the floor, 
but Lewis said, "Put your feet over the edge and let go and 
I will catch you." He failed to do this and I struck the floor 
hard, hurting my head. When he helped me up I was dazed and 
when he asked me "Where is Frank?" I replied, "I don't know." 
Frank remained quiet and it evidently did not occur to any one 
to search for him in the loft. 

They sent the Hudson Bay boys and the half-breed Indian boy 
in charge of an Indian to Finlay's lodge and from there they were 
sent the next day to Fort Walla Walla and were safe there. 
Later, after the rescue of the survivors, the two Manson boys 
went down the river from the fort with us ; but they would not 
let the boy David go, claiming him as a Canadian. His father 
was a Spaniard and his mother a squaw. The last look I had 
of him was when we rowed away from Fort Walla Walla, leaving 
him standing on the bank of the river crying as though his 
heart were breaking. 

Lewis said to me, "Where do you want to go?" 
I said, "I want to go to the kitchen where John is." 
He replied, "John is dead and the rest of them." ^ 

I said, "I don't believe it, for he was there when I went down 
at recess." 

But he took my hand and the rest of the children followed, 

Page Seventeen 



with the Indians bringing up the rear. When we went into the 
kitchen, the dead body of John laid on the floor and his blood 
had run and made a stream of dark, congealed crimson. He 
laid on his back with one arm thrown up and back and the other 
outstretched and the twine still around his knees. It appeared 
as if he had been hit and just slipped out of the chair he was 
sitting on. We children all sat down on the settle that was near 
the stove. A stove was a luxury in those days ; there was one 
in the living room and in the kitchen, where the children sat 
in terror, was a Hudson's Bay cook stove of a very small and 
primitive make ; the oven was directly over the firebox and two 
kettles which were of an oblong shape sat in on the side, some- 
thing like the drum on the sides of a stove. The kettle of meat 
had been put on to cook for dinner and was still on the stove. 
Joe Lewis took a piece out and cut it up, put it on the lid of 
the kettle and said, "You children haven't had any dinner," 'and 
passed it to us, but none of us could eat. 

The room was full of Indians and they would point their 
guns at us, saying "Shall we shoot?" and then flourish their 
tomahawks at our defenseless heads. One of them had on John's 
straw hat that he had braided from straw cut from wild grass 
one summer when he was working for the Rev. Spalding. Mrs. 
Spalding had sewed it for him. The Indian's name was Klok- 
amus. Later, he was one of five hanged at Oregon City in the 
summer of 1850. The pantry was being plundered by the squaws. 
In memory, I can hear the rattle of the dried berries on the 
floor as they emptied the receptacles of them, in order to get the 
pans and cans to carry away. Joe Lewis went into the living 
room and must have gone into the parlor where mother had a 
large wooden chest in which she kept her choice clothing and 
keepsakes; he came out with five nice, fancy gauze kerchiefs 
of dififerent colors, made to wear with a medium low-necked 
dress. He gave them to the Chief and the headmen that were 
in the room. 

In a short time my brother Frank came into the room. He 
sat down beside me, saying "I came to find you. John is dead 
and we don't know what has become of the rest of the family; 
the Indians are going to kill me and what will become of you, 
my poor, little sister?" Word was finally passed out not to kill 
any of the children and we were ordered out of the house, so 
we went and stood in a corner where the "Indian room" made 
an ell with the main part of the house; the Indians were very 
numerous, some of them on horses and most of them armed and 
painted and they seemed to be waiting for something. Soon out 
came the immigrant women that had all fled to the Mission 
house for safety upon the outbreak of the massacre; as they 
passed us their children went with their mothers, leaving Frank, 

Page Eighteen 



Eliza Spalding and myself standing there. They were followed 
by Mr. Rogers and Joe Lewis bearing a settee with the wounded 
Mrs. Whitman on it, covered up with blankets and Elizabeth 
close beside it, her arms laden with clothing. When they had 
gotten out of and a short distance from the house in an open 
space, Joe Lewis dropped his end of the settee. Mr. Rogers 
looked up quickly and must have realized whatt it meant; but 
he was shot instantly and fell and an Indian tried to ride his 
horse over him. Elizabeth turned about and ran back into the 
house. Then an Indian came to Mrs. Whitman and took his 
whip and beat her over the face and head and then turned the 
settee over in the mud. She was very weak from loss of blood, 
my sister Catherine told me and I am convinced that she did 
not last long after being beaten and thrown face down in the 
mud, with the blankets and settee on top of her. 

An Indian came and stood by Frank and another one took 
up his stand close by and they talked together earnestly; the 
first one was a friendly one and he seemed to be pleading with 
the other to spare Frank's life, but finally the ugly one took hold 
of my brother and said, "You are a bad boy." Then he shoved 
him a short distance from my side and an Indian shot him in 
the breast; he fell and did not struggle and I think he died 
instantly as he made no movement. The Indians all went away 
then and the women and children that belonged in the immigrant 
house were gone and Eliza and I were alone. We seemed to 
be paralyzed and the horrors we had passed through so numbed 
our thoughts that we did not seem to think that we could go to 
the other house, as we had been taught not to go where we had 
not had permission. It was getting quite dark by this time, in 
the short November day, and we stood close together, when a 
friendly Indian came ; he was the one that had pleaded for 
Frank's life and he took us by the hands and led us over to 
Mrs. Sander's door. She took us in and gave us some supper 
and one of the other families took Eliza in to give her a place 
to sleep. 

When I had eaten my supper. Miss Bewley asked me if I 
would go over to the Whitman house to take food to her brother 
who was lying terribly ill in the little room just off the kitchen. 
He had seen and heard some of the awful things that had taken 
place during the day, but had not been molested, probably because 
the Indians thought him dying anyway. I told her I was afraid 
to go, as I would have to step over the dead bodies. Mrs. 
Sanders took me into a bedroom and spread a quilt on the floor 
and I laid down, but not to sleep until far into the night. Mr. 
Gillam, the tailor, had been wounded while sitting on his table 
sewing and had run into this room; he was suffering terribly 

Page Nineteen 



and begging to be put out of his misery ; along towards morning 
he was given his release from suflFering. 

We got up very early and ate a scant breakfast, as we 
knew not what daylight would bring. The Indians would surely 
ask to be fed as they were then sitting in the early glimmerings 
of light on Monument hill, chanting the Death song. The wind 
had blown and whistled so mournfully in the night that it had 
added to my fear and I never hear the sound of the wind blowing 
in the winter, but my mind goes back to that terrible night ; and 
it has been 72 years since I heard it wail its requium around 
desolated Waiilatpu. 

My four sisters and the two half-breed girls, with the 
wounded Mr. Kimball, were alone in the chamber of the Mission 
house all night, for they had made no attempt to leave when the 
others had gone in the afternoon. The children were all ill with 
measles and two were very ill — sister Louise and Helen Meek. 
They begged constantly for water, but there was none upstairs ; 
the pitchers of water that were there on Monday morning had 
had cloths dipped in them to put on Mrs. Whitman's wounds. 
Mr, Kimball's broken arm pained him excessively and he sat 
on the floor with his head against a bed until toward morning, 
when he told Catherine to tear up a sheet and bandage his arm 
and he would go to the river for water. 

Catherine said, "Mother wouldn't want the sheets torn up." 
"Child, your mother will never need sheets. She is dead," 
was his answer. He went out in the dim morning light and 
succeeded in reaching the river, wrapped in the blanket Cather- 
ine had put around him, Indian fashion. Meanwhile the Indians 
had come to the immigrant house and had told us to prepare 
their breakfast. While they were waiting for their meal, an 
outcry was made that drew us all to the north door in the Hall's 
room. I stepped out on the lower step and an Indian with a gun 
in his hand was on the upper step ; we saw the figure of a man 
with a white blanket around him, walking near the Doctor's 
house; he was near the corn-crib about half way to the house, 
when the Indian on the step above me shot, and the man fell. 
It was Mr. Kimball returning with water for the fevered children. 
I realize that my statement is dififerent from all the others of 
the survivors in regard to the killing of Mr. Kimball, but I have 
a clear remembrance of this tragedy, which time has not dimmed 
or effaced from my mind. According to some, he hid in the 
brush till the next day and in working his way to his family 
was killed as he was crossing the fence by the house. I remember 
the same day, about noon or later, Joe Stanfield came in and 
said that a "Boston man" was hiding in the brush. Some of 
the women watned to investigate, but Joe said "No, don't." We 

Page Twenty 



thought it might be Mr, Hall, as he had gone, as I remember, 
early in the morning of the massacre to see if he could shoot 
some ducks on the river. He was never heard from or his body 
found, so no one knows his fate. 

The Osborn family hid under the floor in the Indian room 
and remained hidden until in the darkness of the night they came 
out, put a little food together, wrapped a coverlid about Mrs. 
Osborn and went out into the cold. There were Mr. Osborn 
and three children in the party. Mrs. Osborn had been confined 
to the bed and this was the first time she had been out of doors 
in some days, though that day she had been able to go into Mrs. 
Whitman's part of the house. They climbed the fence and took 
the irrigation ditch, as it oflfered more protection for them, being 
quite deep with the wild rye grass and buck brush growing thick 
and tall on the banks ; then they got into the main road and went 
on for some distance, finally hiding for the day; besides Mrs. 
Osborn was unable to travel further. Their sufferings were 
terrible, all being thinly clad. At last Mr, Osborn concluded to 
take the oldest boy and go to the Fort, if possible, leaving his 
wife and the other children hidden in the bushes. He made 
his way to Fort Walla Walla, carrying his boy on his back ; the 
boy had nothing with which to cover his head. When Mr. 
Osborn arrived at the Fort he asked Commander McBaine to 
take him in and to furnish him horses and food to use in the 
rescue of his wife and the other children. McBaine refused, 
saying he "Could not do it." 

**I will die at the Fort gates, but I must have help," was 
Osborn's reply. 

In the happy days before these tragic happenings, an artist 
by the name of Stanley came to the Mission. He had been sent 
out by the Grovernment for the Smithsonian Institute to take 
pictures. At the time of the Massacre he was again on his way 
to visit the Mission. He and his Indian guide intended to go 
down into the Willamette valley, near Oregon City, to winter. 
Meeting an Indian woman, she told him everyone was killed at 
the Mission ; he was asked if he was a "Boston man" or a French- 
man and replying that he was a Frenchman, was allowed to 
proceed unmolested. He reached the Fort in safety and when 
McBaine refused to let Mr. Osborn have horses, said to the 
latter, "You can have my horse and what provisions I have," 
and he also gave him a silk handkerchief to tie on the child's 
head. Stitkus, an Indian, took his own French chapeau and 
put it on Mr. Osborn's head. McBaine at last gave an Indian 
a blanket if he would go with Mr. Osborn and rescue the family ; 
but he instructed him not to bring them to the Fort, but to take 
them to an Indian village. The mother and children were found 

Page Twenty-One 



with some difficulty, and as they came to the fork in the road on 
the return, one leading to the Umatilla Indian village where 
their lives would not have been safe, and the other to the Fort 
and security, the Indian, disregarding McBaine's explicit direc- 
tions, refused to take the one to the village and insisted that they 
proceed to the Fort. The little party did so, and were finally 
admitted. Their hardships were many, even there; but they 
remained until such time as we were all ransomed. This is as 
I remember hearing from sister Catherine as she, later, lived 
close to the Osborn family in the Willamette valley and she and 
Mrs. Osborn were together frequently ; also from the account 
sworn to by Mr. Osborn in Gray's History. 

Tuesday morning. Miss Bewley made some gruel, hoping 
to be able to send it over to her sick brother. Chief Tilokaikt 
came in and she told him of her brother and he was very sympa- 
thetic and took a number of us in charge to go over to the Mission 
house. Some of the party went inside of the fence on the north 
side, while some took the south side which was the public road. 
When we were a few yards from the house, we saw Mr. Sander's 
body lying there ; then we heard a cry and saw Catherine and 
Elizabeth coming, each carrying a sick child in their arms. The 
women hastened to meet them and helped them to the house, 
which had sheltered us through the night. Poor Mary Ann 
Bridger was tottering along by herself. They had to leave Helen 
Meek alone and we could hear her screaming and begging to be 
taken also, disregarding Catherine's assurance that she would 
soon return for her. At last all the sick ones were transferred 
to the immigrant house, save Mr. Bewley ; and Mr. Sales, who 
was also very ill in the blacksmith shop. Sister Louise died 
five days after this and Helen Meek a few days after her. 

This same morning (Tuesday) we were given muslin to 
make sheets to wrap the dead in and Wednesday morning Joe 
Stansfield and the women helped to cover and sew them in these 
sheets. He had dug a long trench about three feet deep and six 
feet long; then all the bodies were put in a wagon and hurried 
to the grave. They were all piled up like dead animals in the 
wagon bed. A runaway occurred and scattered some of the 
bodies along the road and they had to be picked up. There was 
a Catholic father who was visiting the Indians and he went up 
to the hole where they were burying them and helped. He would 
take hold of one end of a body and Joe Stansfield hold of the 
other and they would lay them in this shallow place until all 
the victims were ranged side by side — Mr. and Mrs. Whitman, 
then the two Sager boys and Mr. Rogers, and so on, then covered 
with the earth. 

There were two families living about twenty miles away at 
a sawmill which belonged to Dr. Whitman. Mr. Young had 

Page Twenty-Two 



three grown boys and Mr. Smith also had a family, one of 
whom, Mary Smith, was attending the Mission school. The 
morning after the massacre the oldest son of the Young family, 
in entire ignorance of what had occurred, started for the Mission 
with a load of lumber and to get provisions for the return trip. 
The Indians killed him two miles from the Mission. His family 
could not understand why he did not return and became alarmed. 
They finally sent another son by another road and he arrived 
without being attacked, but was informed by Joe Stansfield that 
his brother had been killed by Indians and had been buried where 
he fell. This young fellow, finding that we were getting out 
of flour, remained at Waiilatpu as there was no man to run the 
grist mill. Mr. Bewley and Mr. Sales became better and were 
able to sit up and get about a bit. One day Mr. Sales was sitting 
by the stove and an Indian began talking to him, telling him he 
was getting stronger and would soon be able to work for the 
Indians ; that they were soon to put out all the women and 
children and they would all have to work all the time. Mr. Sales 
replied that he was a good worker and would labor constantly 
for them if they would only spare his life. It was only a day or 
two after this that the two men were attacked while on their bed, 
beaten with clubs and whips and finally killed and their bodies 
thrown out of doors. Most of the women and children started 
to run out of doors, but an Indian caught and held me until they 
had finished the terrible deed. 

Miss Bewley was sent for by the chief of the Umatillas 
and in spite of heartrending protests was obliged to accompany 
the messenger sent for her. 

One morning Joe Stansfield saw wolves at the grave and 
went up there to find that they were digging into it. He heaped 
more earth over it, but later, after we had left the place and had 
been redeemed, soldiers going there found that the wolves had 
succeeded in desecrating the last resting place of our loved ones. 
Bones were scattered about and on some of the bare bushes 
were strands of Mrs. Whitman's beautiful, long, golden hair. 
They collected the bones and again buried them, heaping the 
earth high and turning a wagon-box over the grave. For fifty 
years nothing more was done to it. 

Mr. Spalding came within two miles of the Mission on 
Wednesday morning, when he met a Catholic father, his Indian 
interpreter and another Indian. Sending the two Indians ahead, 
the priest told Mr. Spalding of the massacre, assuring him that 
all the women, save Mrs. Whitman, and all the children had been 
spared; that his daughter was alive and that now was his time 
to escape, as the Indian who had joined him and his interpreter 
intended to kill him. The father gave him what food he had 

Page Twenty-Three 



and Mr. Spalding turned his horse's head towards the Walla 
Walla river. He followed down the bank of the Walla Walla, 
traveling by night and hiding by day. For a time he kept his 
horse, but Indians passed near his hiding place and he had to 
rub his mount's nose to keep his from neighing and thus betray- 
ing him. The horse got away from him finally and he had to 
travel afoot in the storm. All the subsistence he had was wild 
rose-hips. After a week's travel he reached the Clearwater, 
close to where his family was, though he did not know this fact, 
believing that they also might have been killed. He proceeded 
very carefully, thinking the Indians hostile, but knowing that 
if he could make in safety the lodge of an Indian by the name 
of Luke, he would be safe. He was tired and worn out with 
travel. At last he was close enough to the lodge to listen to 
family worship and assured by the knowledge that they still 
acknowledged the white man's God, knew it would be safe for 
him to enter; but so exhausted was he that he fell when just 
inside the door of the tepee and his cap fell off. At first the 
Indians thought he was a ghost, but when they saw his bald 
head, they realized he was still in the flesh and then proceeded 
to feed and care for him. They told him that his family was 
at Craig's mountain and later they took him back up there. 
Mrs. Spalding, when she heard of the massacre, called the head 
men of the tribe and put herself on their mercy and under their 
protection. They said they would protect her and suggested 
that they start at once for Craig's home. She said that this was 
the Sabbath and they must not travel on that day. The Presby- 
terian Indians never travel on the Sabbath and the brave Uttle 
woman, reminding them of their religion, knowing at the same 
time that it might lessen her chances of escape, induced them 
to postpone starting until the following day, when they took 
her to Craig's, where she remained until rescued from the Indians. 
She s'^nt two Indians, Timothy and Grey Eagle, down to the 
Mission to ask if her captors would not release Eliza Spalding 
and let them take her to her mother; but they would not listen 
and refused to give her up. These two Indians came when 
Helen Meek was dying from the measles. Timothy went in to 
see her and fell on his knees by the side of her bed, praying in 
his own language; when he arose, he pointed upward, indicating 
that the spirit had flown. 

When the news of the massacre was taken to Fort Van- 
couver, Peter Skeen Ogden, the chief factor, declared he must 
take goods and go to the rescue of the women and children before 
the volunteers could go up there; he believed that if the Indians 
thought the volunteers were to attempt a rescue, that they would 
kill all their prisoners, for they well knew that they deserved 
punishment for their dastardly deeds. With no prisoners to 

Page Twenty-Four 



hamper them, they could perhaps elude any pursuing band of 
volunteers. Douglass objected, reminding his superior that he 
would be obliged to use in barter goods belonging to another 
government than the United States, without knowing if the 
latter government would reimburse him for them or not. "If the 
United States will not pay for them, then I will pay for them out 
of my own pocket, but those unfortunate captives must be res- 
cued at once," said this great-hearted man. He proceeded to 
Fort Walla Walla and called a council of chiefs and other Indians 
and finally after some days of discussion, made this treaty with 
them. They were to deliver the prisoners to him, for which they 
would receive goods valued at five hundred dollars from the Hud- 
son Bay people; it was stipulated that Mr. Spalding's family and 
Miss Bewley should all be brought in. During the time of the 
parley small bands of Indians were constantly passing the Mis- 
sion, going to and from the place of treaty-making. One party 
in passing thought to play a joke on those who were guarding 
us and shot off their guns, making quite a commotion and causing 
our captors to think that the "Boston men" were at hand. They 
began to grab up some of the children to kill them ; one caught 
me up and started to thrust a tomahawk into my brains. Just 
then the Indians outside began laughing and the brutes, on murder 
bent, concluded the noise was all a joke and did not hurt any of us. 

We were directed to cook a supply of food as provision for 
the trip. Fifty Nez Perce warriors escorted the Spalding family 
through the hostile country and an Indian brought Miss Bewley to 
the immigrant house where the rest of us were. They took us 
down to Fort Walla Walla in ox wagons. Among other things 
which I remember we left behind was a pair of pigeons the Can- 
field family had brought with them from Iowa. The cage was set 
in the window on leaving, the door knocked off, and the pigeons 
were still sitting in their cage — the last glimpse we had of them. 
After we had been some time on our way, an Indian woman came 
out of her lodge and motioned for us to go fast — and we did! 
It seemed that some of the Indians regretted their bargain and 
wanted to take us all prisoners again. This woman knew they 
might soon attempt to do so. I was in the last wagon to arrive. 
We could see the wagons ahead of us going into the Fort gates 
when they were opened and it seemed as if ours would never get 
there ; but when the last one came up "pel mel" and we were safe 
inside, the Indians concluded it was too late to make an attack 
and capture us again. The day they were to receive the goods 
promised for our release, we were put into rooms out of sight 
of the Indians and told to remain there. Of course the Indians 
were inside the fort grounds that day, and McBain was afraid 
they might repent the argreement to give us up and try to take 
us captive again. Mr. Ogden made the speech and delivered the 

Page Twenty-Five 



goods and as soon as possible they were gotten away from the 
Fort. But they would not let the Indian boy go. The Hudson's 
Bay men claimed him as belonging rightfully to them. "He didn't 
belong to the Doctor," they said, "but had Indian blood in him." 
The last I ever saw of him he was standing on the bank of the 
river crying as though his heart were breaking as his friends 
floated away from him. He was about six years old. There 
were three boats that started down the river the day we left the 
Fort, eight oarsmen to a boat, and we pulled out into the stream 
pretty fast once we started. Indians were along the bank riding 
and talking, and it was necessarj'- to travel fast. At night we 
landed and camped. It was cold, windy and sandy. Our belong- 
ings were left for the settlers to bring down in the spring, though, 
of course, we children had little to concern ourselves about. 
Before we left the Mission Mrs. Sanders had told one of the 
chiefs that the Doctor's children had no clothes — that everything 
was gone. "No clothes, no blankets, no nothing," so he went over 
to the other house and brought a comfort and gave that to my 
oldest sister and gave me a thin quilt and my other sister a blanket 
or quilt. It was the custom in those days to quilt so fine ; I mean, 
with the stitching very close and usually the quilts were made 
of two pieces of cloth and a thin layer of cotton batting between. 
My quilt got afire on our trip down the river and most of it 
was burned. The chief also got us a few undergarments of 
Mrs. Whitman's. 

Mr. Spalding looked after us on the trip and Mr. Stanley, 
who went along also, took especial pains to care for us. He 
would do all he could to make the hardships a little easier to 
bear, taking pains to wrap us up when in the boat and to see that 
we got to camp and back to the boat securely. When we got 
to Vancauver, Mr. Stanley bought some calico to make each of 
us a dress. I think my portion was five yards and they made me 
a dress and bonnet out of it after I went to Mrs. Geiger's. I 
do not know what we would have done without Mr. Stanley. He 
was so good and kind to us and Mr. Ogden was very kind, too. 

We had to make two portages. Once the men had to take 
the boats entirely out of the water and carry^ them around on 
their shoulders and let them down the steep banks with ropes, 
while we carried the provisions and such small belongings as we 
were allowed to take with us. We finally came to Memmaloo's 
island, which Mr. Stanley told us was the Indian burying ground. 
It took us about eight days to go down the Columbia river. As 
we traveled, we came to a place they called St. Helens, then to 
another called Linn City and on to Fort Vancouver. We staid 
over Sunday there and the Spalding family was entertained at 
the Post by Mr. Ogden and James Douglas and finally we were 
taken to Portland. Some of the volunteers were on the bank 

Page Twenty-Six 



of the Willamette river and the Governor v^^as also standing 
there as we rowed up. Mr. Ogden went to the Governor, shook 
hands and said to him, "Here are the prisoners and now I will 
turn them over to you. I have done all I could." He also asked 
that we be taken to Oregon City, which was agreed upon and 
later, done. Some of the volunteers were camped across the 
river and when they saluted the boats we children thought we 
were going to be shot. Captain Gilliam, a brother-in-law of the 
Captain Shaw who was our protector on the plains after our own 
father and mother had died, rowed across the river and asked 
which were the Sager children and on our being pointed out to 
him, shook hands with us. Some of our forlorn party had friends 
to meet them and Governor Abernathy kept the others until 
places were found for them. 

I remember going to Dr. McLaughlin's house in Oregon City. 
Mr. Stanley had a room there and was painting portraits and he 
came to take us down to see his pictures. He wanted to paint 
my picture, but I was entirely too timid and would not let him. 
We enjoyed the pictures, however. When we came down stairs 
Dr. McLaughlin and his son-in-law, Mr. Ray, were in the lower 
room. As we came down stairs the Doctor, thinking to play a 
little practical joke, locked the door on us and told us we were 
prisoners again and, of course, we were frightened almost to 
death. When he found that he had frightened us, he assured 
us he was just fooling and let us go. We took everything in 
earnest and were afraid of white people as well as the Indians. 
One can hardly realize at this day, in what a tortured state our 
nerves were. 



Page Twenty-Seven 



OREGON CITY— AFTER THE MASSACRE 

My father was born in Virginia, had Uved in Ohio, then in 
Indiana. Both father and mother dying on the way to Oregon 
and the two oldest members of the family then remaining, having 
been cruelly torn from us by the massacre, we girls had little 
knowledge of any relatives in the East, save that they lived some- 
where in Ohio. Time rolled on. My oldest sister made her home 
with the Rev. William and Mrs. Roberts until she married. Mr. 
Roberts was a Methodist minister. His sons, in writing a letter 
to their grandparents in New Jersey, told of their father and 
mother taking an orphan girl by the name of Catherine Sager 
to live with them. An extract of this letter was published in the 
Advocate and was read by an uncle of mine, who, seeing the 
name of Catherine Sager and knowing that his brother Henry 
had a daughter by that name, wrote a letter and addressed it to 
"Miss Catherine Sager, Somewhere in Oregon." He gave it to 
a man who was crossing the plains ; he carried it some months 
and finally put it in a postoffice near Salem, Oregon, and the 
postmaster gave it to my sister. In that way we found our 
relatives. 

I was with the Spaldings for, I think, four months, and I 
attended Mrs. Thornton's private school in the Methodist church. 
Then Mr. Spalding decided to go and live in Forest Grove and the 
Rev. Mr. Griffin and Mr. Alvin T. Smith came with their ox 
teams and moved us out. 

Miss Mary Johnson came to the Whitmans in '45, wintered 
there and went to the Spalding's mission in '46 and was there 
at the time of the massacre and came down the river with us. 
She came with the Spalding family to Forest Grove when we 
moved. We were taken to the Smith home until the Spalding 
family could get a house and settle down. 

It was decided, however, that I should go and live with 
Mr. and Mrs. Geiger, living on a farm adjoining the Smith's. 
The Geigers were a young married couple without children. Mr. 
Geiger came on horseback after me the day after we reached 
the Smiths, but I cried so hard at the prospect of leaving Mary 
Johnson that he went away without me. A day or so later he 
came back again and still I would not go, but clung to Mary. 
It seemed to me she was my only friend. The third time he 
came, I had to go and all my belongings were tied up in a little 
bundle. A large bandana handkerchief would have held them 

Page Twenty-Eight 



all. I rode behind him. His home was a one-room log house with 
a fireplace to cook by. I took up my life there, lonely and iso- 
lated. The nearest neighbor was a mile away. Life was primi- 
tive. If the fire was not carefully covered to keep the coals alive, 
we would have to go to a neighbor's to borrow fire. There were 
no matches in the country and sometimes I would be sent a mile 
across the prairie to bring fire on a shovel from the neighbor's. 
If there were no coals, the flint and steel had to be used and if that 
was not successful we would have to do without. It was not 
always possible to obtain dry sticks in order to make the flint 
and steel serve their purpose. Supplies were to be had only from 
the Hudson Bay Posts, for people had had to leave most of 
their things behind in crossing the plains. That summer a baby 
came to the home of the .Geiger's and I had to take care of it 
and a good deal of the time be nurse and help with the housework. 
I had been taught to sew and iron and repair my own clothes and 
must have been a really helpful young person. In the fall of 
'48 discovery of gold in California made a great change. All 
were eager to go to the gold mines. Mr. Geiger got the gold 
fever and moved us away up to his father-in-law's, the Rev. 
J. Cornwall. This family had moved onto the place in the spring 
and had just a log cabin to house a large family. They did not 
raise much of a crop the first year and Mr. Cornwall traveled 
around and preached over the valley most of the time. That 
fall he took a band of sheep in the valley and the winter being 
very hard, a good many of them died and his wife had to card 
and spin wool, knit socks and sell them to the miners at a dollar 
a pair in order to help make the living. She knit all the time 
and a part of my work was to help pull the wool off the dead 
sheep and wash it and get it ready for her to use. We had to 
carry water quite a distance from the river, as it seemed that 
many of the early settlers of Oregon had a great habit of build- 
ing as far from the river as possible, so we children would have 
more to do to pack the water and stamp the clothes with our 
feet. We wintered there and in the spring Mrs. Gieger, baby 
and I went to their farm thirty-five miles down into the valley 
to look after some of their belongings, as the Rev. Spalding, who 
had wintered there, had gone to a house of his own. Mr. Geiger 
returned unexpectedly from California, went up to get their 
things left on the Yamhill, and we settled down on the farm and 
life went on. I didn't attend school that year, for there was no 
school. The Reverend Eels came down in the spring of 50 to 
teach private school. I went three months, walking three and a 
half miles each way. Mr. Geiger paid five dollars for three 
months' schooling. 

There were large herds of Mexican cattle owned in the 
valley and they would chase everything except someone on horse- 
Page Twenty-Nine 



back. Everyone owned a few of the domestic cattle with them 
and they proved very useful, as the tame cattle stood guard until 
the others were chased away. I was in continual fear of being 
chased by them. They would lie down to watch you all day 
and I would skirt along in the bushes, working my way along 
trembUngly to get out and away to school without their seeing 
me. If these long-horned Spanish cattle chased a person up a 
tree they would lie under the tree all day on guard. Wolves 
chased the cattle, trying to get the little calves. Pigs would have 
to be bedded right up against the house on account of the coy- 
otes and wolves. 

While I was at the Cornwalls in '49, we lived right where 
the Indians passed by on the trail coming down the valley. 
The Indians were not on reserves then. When the men folks 
were gone the women were very afraid of the Indians. They were 
women of the South, reared with a certain fear of the negroes, 
and this fear extended to the Indians. When the Indians were 
in the vicinity they would have me cover up the fire and if any 
of the babies needed any attention, I was the one who would 
have to give it and rake out the coals and make a fire for the 
baby. We had chickens and had a stick chimney ; and in a corner 
of the chimney was a chicken-roost. One night old Mrs. Corn- 
wall spied what she thought was an Indian looking through the 
chinking of the log house. I said, "Oh, I think not, I don't hear 
anything." But they hurried me up to investigate and it was 
soon found to be the light shining on the old rooster's eyes. 

The summer of '50 I attended school, as I have before said, 
going also the next year for three months to the same place, to 
the Reverend Eels. Then I did not go any more until the sum- 
mer I was thirteen. Mr. Eells moved over near Hillsboro, where 
the Reverend Griffin had built a school building on his place and 
had hired Mr. Eells to come over and teach and he lived in a 
part of Mr. Griffin's house. He called it "Mr. Griffin's select 
school." I was permitted to go there and work for my board, 
but did not have to work very hard. Mr. Griffin had lots of 
cattle and Mr. Eells had one cow; when he was at home he 
milked it and when he was not the youngsters had to milk. Mrs. 
Griffin and her children had all their cows to milk. They did not 
wean the calves, but would turn them all in together and the big 
calves would have a fine time getting all the milk. One day I was 
milking the cow and I set the milk pail down in the comer and 
the old cow got at it and drank all the milk. 

I had read of town pumps, but had never seen one until I 
went there and I did not like the taste of the water in this, but 
Mr. Griffin said it was sulphur water. Finally it go so strong of 
sulphur he concluded he had better have the well cleaned out; 

Page Thirty 



so someone came to clean it out and they found a side of bacon, 
a skunk, some squirrels and mice. After it was cleaned out, we 
had no more sulphur water, but I have never enjoyed the taste 
of sulphur water since. 

We had a garden. I was very fond of cucumbers and my 
favorite pastime in summer after supper was to gather cucum- 
bers, get a handful of salt and walk up the lane. When anyone 
asked about Matilda, someone would reply, "The last I saw of 
her she was walking up the lane with salt and cucumbers for 
company." 

Some of our pastimes, evenings, were to sit together by the 
fireplace in Mr. Griffin's home with him as the leader in the 
story-telling. We would recount incidents in our lives and then 
make up stories and tell them ; roast potatoes in the fire, rake 
them out with a stick when about half done and each would 
have a part of the refreshments of half roasted potatoes and 
salt. Mr. Griffin sent and got what he called a seraphine — ^a 
small cabinet organ ; it opened up like a piano and was a wonder 
around there. At about eleven o'clock, when we were all in 
bed, he would go in where it was kept, open up the organ and 
give us some music. His favorite hymn was set to the tune of 
"Balerma," and the words were, "Oh, for a closer walk with 
God," and he would sing such songs until after midnight. In 
the morning he never did any work on the place. He had a 
saddle horse and he rode around. Mrs. Griffin and the children 
had to do everything. He didn't even plant the potatoes. All the 
new potatoes we had grew among the old potatoes that were 
dug and stored for the winter and I used to help Mrs. Griffin 
get the new potatoes out from among the old ones. I helped 
her to churn and in many other ways. She thought I was a 
pretty good girl. Mr. Griffin was very fond of entertaining their 
company with music. There was a man named Laughlin who 
once came to spend the night when it was raining. We were 
sitting by the fireplace. The fire did not burn very well and Mrs. 
Griffin came in with a little hand bellows and blew up the fire. 
The old man saw her coming and fancied it must be a dangerous 
instrument of some kind. It frightened him and he got up and 
made for the door. He finally saw what it was and came back 
and sat down.' Then Mr. Griffin sat down by his organ and began 
playing it. That frightened the old gentleman again and in his 
fright he overturned his chair and got out of the door. He 
could not understand what was happening. So we had our fun 
with the organ, Mr. Laughlin and the little bellows. 

Mr. Griffin liked to give advice to the young. My chum, 
Maria Tanner, and I were frequently given the benefit of his 
wisdom, but child-fashion, did not care to be "preached at." 

Page Thirty-One 



We would see him coming and would start to evade him. Some- 
times we would dodge around the house, but finally he got on to 
our trick and would meet us and corner us and give us whole lot 
of advice. He thought it dreadful for young girls to be as 
frivolous as we were ; for he called it frivolous because we went 
down to the woods and sang songs and laughed. That was one 
of my sins — to laugh. We would often lie in bed singing and 
laughing and Mr. Eells would call up for us to be quiet. We 
would be still until we thought the old man had settled down and 
then we would start in again. Children were not supposed to be 
in evidence at all in those days, and I sometimes got double doses 
of advice and correction. But my school days ended — when I 
was thirteen, 

I went back to the Gieger farm where I washed, did house- 
work, sewed and cared for the children. Sometimes if there had 
been a good deal of trouble in the church, the man I lived with 
(Mr. Gieger) would not allow me to go to the Grove to church. 
But we had a meeting at Mr. Walker's home and Mr. Walker 
preached. Sometimes in the winter it was so lonely and cold 
that it would be three or four months until we could go out to 
church. We looked forward to the campmeetings in June. We 
had an old mud oven outside to bake in. The people got together 
and furnished provisions ; some would bring meat, some potatoes 
and some materials for bread. I went with Mrs. Gieger's folks. 
One old lady said she went to campmeetings because she got to 
see all the old neighbors; and I think they were pretty nearly 
our only salvation from entire stagnation. Sometimes we would 
go fifty miles to a camp. One of the tricks of the boys was to 
shave the tails of the horses ; another was to throw tom cats 
with their tails tied together in the crowd at the mourner's bench. 
This would stop the praying for awhile. 

We always picked berries in the spring and summer. There 
was not much tame fruit — a few seedling apples. The only way 
we travelled was on horseback. The first printing press that was 
brought to Oregon was stored in Mr. Griffin's house. We used 
to go to the old press and try to sort out the type. Mrs. Griffin 
had a sister, Rachel Smith ; the Griffins arranged a match be- 
tween her and the Rev. Henry Spalding and she came out from 
Boston to marry him. We were invited to the wedding, which 
occurred in a schoolhouse used for a church, and the "infare" 
was arranged to be held at Mrs. Griffin's the next day. I had 
never been to a wedding and I had a great desire to go; so I 
went to the wedding in preference to going to the infare, since 
I had my choice. Mr. Griffin performed the ceremony. Mr. 
Spalding preached the sermon and Mr. Griffin played the organ 
and sang. The bride was attired in a white dress and a long, 
thin scarf with purple stripes in the ends and fringe and she 

Page Thirty-Two 



had on a rough straw bonnet. Mrs. Griffin called it "Rachel's 
Dunstable bonnet." When they were ready for the ceremony, 
Mr. Spalding stepped forward and Mrs. Griffin placed her sister 
by his side, putting Miss Smith's hand in his; they stood there 
a little while and Mr. Griffin said the words that made them man 
and wife. That was my first wedding. 

My next experience at a wedding was when I was chosen 
to be the bridesmaid. I was to wear a thin blue dress and 1 
went to the place where the wedding was to occur, carrying 
my dress. Our dressing room was to stand on the bed with 
curtains around it. The bride was dressed first and then I 
dressed myself. We knew of another bride who was coming 
and we waited to get the white ribbon bows for the bride to wear 
in her hair and the white ribbons to wear around her wrists. 
The men were all standing outside the house, as the table was 
set for dinner — the cooking was done at the fireplace — and there 
was not room in the small house for them. Finally when the 
bride was ready the best man came in. His name was John 
Kane. I discovered he had about half of his coat sleeve ripped 
out, but in spite of torn coat, the ceremony proceeded and then 
we sat down and had the wedding dinner. The Rev. Walker 
performed the ceremony. Among other goodies which we had 
on the table were glasses of syrup. There was something a little 
bit white in it and I found that it was pie-dough cut out with a 
thimble and baked and dropped in it for an ornament. The next 
day the bride and groom and myself were to take a trip. The 
best man's sweetheart got very jealous of me because I acted as 
bridesmaid with her intended husband as best man. Engaged 
couples at that time were supposed to look only at each other. 
There were two couples besides the bride and groom, who took 
a horseback rtip to Scroggin's valley; we went about fifteen 
miles, I should judge, and ate dinner with a brother of the groom. 
They had not been married very long and were starting in house- 
keeping. We went on to Mr. Tanner's and spent the night, 
leaving the bride and groom at his brother's. Our trip covered 
about fifty miles. 

The next thing that came into my life, of any importance, was 
meeing my first husband. In the fall of '52 Mr. Gieger had 
two brothers come from Michigan and they spent the winter 
with him and in the spring went to the mines in Southern Ore- 
gon, then on the northern California, where they mined a while 
and then started a store. There were the two Grieger boys and 
associated with them were the two Hazlett brothers and Mat 
Fultz. Someone was always coming down with pack animals 
to get supplies, as they had to be packed out from Portland or 
Scotsburg. This summer Everett Gieger came and one of the 
Hazletts came with him and spent the summer, returning in the 

Page Thirty-Three 



fall with supplies. One morning I was sweeping the floor and 
was around with the children. About ten or eleven o'clock a 
man came to the door. He had long hair down over his shoulders ; 
he wanted know if this was where Mr. Gieger lived. I was 
barefooted and not in trim to see visitors, but the stranger said 
"Everett Gieger would be along the next day ; that he had stopped 
to visit someone and he had come on ahead." They spent the 
summer there. During the summer, they made up a party — Mr. 
Gieger and his wife, her sister and myself, and a man by the 
name of Mr. Blank, made a trip over to Tillamook Bay. We 
went up to the head of the Yamhill valley, that is now the Siletz 
Reserve. We crossed the mountains on just a thread of a heavily 
timbered trail and were the second party of women that had 
crossed the mountains. We were two days going over the moun- 
tain to come down into the valley of Tillamook and on down 
to what is known as Traskville. A man by the name of Trask 
lived there and made butter and took it to Portland to sell. 

Mr. Grieger and Mr, Trask were acquainted. We spent 
a night and a couple of days there; then went on down and 
camped on Tillamook Bay and hired a boat to go down the bay 
to the mouth of the river and I had my first glimpse of the 
Pacific ocean. That was the first time I ever saw any clams. 
The gnats were terrible. We spent a few days near the shor* 
and then came back to Yamhill and Mrs. Gieger's father's home. 
We staid there a few days and then returned to our own home. 
In the meantime Mr. Everett Gieger had fallen in love with 
Narcissa Cornwall, Mrs. Gieger's sister. I was promised to 
marry Mr. Hazlett. The two men went away in October, back 
to the mines. In February they were to return and we were to be 
married and go back to Illinois to live. But meantime they 
changed their minds and concluded they would go into the stock 
business in the Little Shasta valley. They took up a farm there 
and didn't come down until May. They bought a lot of stock 
to drive down, two yokes of oxen and a wagon ; the oxen had 
worked or been driven across the plains. 

Even in these early times, the subject of clothes claimed some 
attention of the feminine mind. When I was about thirteen 
years old I was very anxious to have a white dress. I had 
never had one. Mrs. Smith had kept Joe Gale's four children 
during the winter, while the parents went to California to the 
mines. He had sent up some white goods, scarfs, shawls and 
so on, but I wanted a white dress. Mrs. Smith told me if I 
would come down and do four washings she would let me have 
everything to make me a dress, so I went to the river to wash 
and I got the goods for my dress and when I went to board with 
Mrs. Eells, she made the dress with flowing sleeves and three 
tucks in the skirt. She made undersleeves, too. The first pair 

Page Thirty-Four 



of gloves I ever had I bought from a peddler, paying twenty-five 
cents for them. I earned most of the money that bought my 
wedding outfit. The wedding dress was a white one and I 
trimmed my own wedding bonnet. Mr. Gieger bought my shoes, 
which were poor leather slippers, with no heels, such as the men 
wore. I was very much disappointed in my shoes, for they 
were just like old bedroom slippers. I had my hair braided and 
wore a big horse-shoe comb. I had white ribbon around my 
wrists like a cuflf. Abigail Walker, my girl chum, came over 
and helped me dress. The wedding day was the fifth of June 
and the Rev. Walker performer the ceremony. His family, Mrs. 
Eells and family and other friends were there. Mr. Walker 
was a very nervous man and when he preached he would shake 
like a person with a mild nervous chill. Mrs. Eells said that 
she could hardly keep from laughing during the ceremony, Mr. 
Walker's clothing shook so. I had the usual congratulations 
from the guests and the single men's congratulations was the 
privilege of kissing the bride. We had the wedding feast. Mrs. 
Walker came over to make the cake. She was the best cake 
maker in the neighborhood. She couldn't manage the cake on 
our stove as well as on her own, so she carried the batter in a 
bucket, four miles on horseback, baked it her own stove, and 
brought back a fine wedding cake with green cedar laid on the 
plate and the cake set on that. The trimmings were cedar boughs, 
wild roses and honeysuckle. 

The next day my husband had to go to Portland on busi- 
ness and we went as far as Hillsboro, where I visited Mrs. Eells 
until he returned. Then we began to get ready to go to my 
future home in Shasta valley, traveling with the stock and ox 
team. Part of the time I rode horseback and part of the time 
I helped drive the cattle. We went on until we got into the 
Umpqua valley and it was very warm and the grasshoppers were 
eating up the whole country ; they had eaten all the foliage on 
the trees. We came to the Cow Creek canyon, but the miUtary 
road had not been built and we had to travel the old road in 
the bed of the creek for miles. It was very rought and rugged 
and the hills were steep. We had traveled one day to put up 
camp. Next day we started, but in going up a steep hill one of 
the oxen stopped and trembled and we thought he had got pois- 
oned. We cut up some sliced bacon and he didn't object to 
eating it and licked his tongue out for more. We gave him some 
more bacon and still he wouldn't go. Finally we hired another 
team which got us through the canyon, but we concluded it was 
only a trick of the old ox, as he had been raised on bacon and 
that was all he wanted. We came to the Grave Creek hills 
which were very steep. We camped just as we got to the sum- 
mit of them and after a rest traveled on; in just two weeks 

Page Thirty-Five 



from that time two men were killed in that place by the Indians. 
We just missed being killed. We traveled on in the Rogue River 
valley which was not very much settled, save in the lower part. 
It showed evidence of the conflict between the white men and 
the Indians by the lonely graves that were scattered along the 
roadside. We came onto Wagner Creek where Mrs. Harris 
and other settlers were killed by the Indians in '55. They were 
harvesting some fine fields of grain as we came through the 
valley. The towns were all small — they could hardly be seen. 
There was Waitsburg, where Mr. Wait had a flouring mill, and a 
large log house ; and at the time of the Indian trouble, the people 
flocked there for safety. In going through the Rogue River 
valley the Indians came to our wagon and were very inquisitive 
and even got into the wagon and frightened me; and when the 
men had to be away I would become very much frightened. One 
evening when in camp on the bank of the Rogue River, we saw 
across the stream some soldiers who had some Indians with them. 
The Indians finally took up their belongings and started across the 
mountains. The soldiers crossed the river and the buglar rode 
down to our camp and told us it would be better for us to go 
up to a nearby farm house ; that while he did not apprehend any 
trouble, we would be safer there. We went up there and found 
seven men, including a fifteen year old boy. They had a log 
cabin and very kindly made all the preparation that they could 
for our safety. The boy was very anxious to kill an Indian, 
so he put seven bullets down in his muzzle-loader gun and said : 
"One of those bullets would surely hit an Indian." 

So we traveled on to the head of the valley and across the 
Siskiyou Mountains into California and we camped over night 
on the summit of the mountains. Three weeks afterward, three 
teamsters camped there and were killed by the Indians. We 
came on down into a rough looking country — a little mining 
camp we called Cottonwood, where my husband had been mining. 
We staid there a week, then took our way on south to Willow 
Creek in Shasta valley, where my husband had a home for us 
to live in and where he was to follow the stock business. We 
were there about two months and a half, when the Klamath 
Lake Indians began to make trouble. We lived close to their 
trail and we were afraid of being killed and so we put up our 
belonging and went back to the Httle mining camp. I never saw the 
home again. We lived in this Cottonwood district near the Ore- 
gon line and raised stock, and my husband put out fruit trees 
and started raising a garden. In the year '60 he had to be 
operated on for cancer. We had to go across the Trinity and 
Scott mountains to Red Bluff, where we took the boat down the 
Sacramento river. Friends thought he would not live to make the 
trip. The doctors said his disease was incurable and that he 

Page Thirty-Six 



would not live more than three years at best. They operated 
on him. I had left our ten-months old baby at home. In the 
June before we went down to San Francisco, our house and 
belongings were destroyed by fire and we went into a bachelor's 
house and lived there. 

Many amusing incidents occurred during the long winter 
months in the mining districts of northern California, when the 
placer miners, waitmg for the water to open up, found time 
hanging heavy on their hands. Isolated as we were, we wel- 
comed anything that would break the monotony of life. One 
locality in which we lived had always given a Democratic majority 
and the Republican brethren of course did not take kindly to 
this. One year they determined to beat the Democrats in the 
coming election and set about it with considerable vim. As there 
were several men in t jwn who did not care particularly which 
ticket they voted, they worked on them. I took in the situation 
and as all my men '<olks were Democrats, I decided to have a 
little fun and help oir party at the same time. I, too, worked on 
those who could be influenced to vote either way. One of these 
persons was named Davey Crockett and he claimed to be a 
nephew of the fa'^nous Davey Crockett of "Alamo" fame. This 
Crockett was known as "Dirty Crockett," because it well de- 
scribed his personal appearance. He lived in a "tepee" out in 
the hills and huated deer. He always wore a red cap that had 
the comers tied up to look like horns. He said he could always 
Ret the deer, because they would stop to look at his cap long 
enough for him to get a bead on them. Another of his accom- 
plishments was his ability to catch live skunks. He offered to 
rid the neighborhood of them if he were paid fifty cents for 
each one he brought in alive. He was given the job and soon 
came carrying a live skunk by the tail. He said he caught them 
by the tail and held them so tight they could not scent him. He 
collected his fifty cents from two or three persons. He repeated 
this several times ; in fact, so frequent became his appearance 
with a live skunk that some of the business men became sus- 
picious and upon investigation it was found that he had caught 
just one skunk and whenever he wanted money he would re- 
appear with the same skunk and collect the bounty. A Welch- 
man, who was a staunch Republican, offered Crockett a fine 
rooster if he would agree to vote that ticket. To this he readily 
agreed. When I learned this, I went to him and offered him 
two dried mink skins that I had, if he would agree to vote the 
Democratic ticket. These looked better than the rooster, so he 
transferred his allegiance to the Democratic party. Four or five 
"floaters" seen with equally good results kept the balance of 
power on the Democratic side on election day. 

The Welchman who had labored so hard to make a Re- 
Page Thirty-Seven 



publican of Crockett, gave me a write-up in the paper after 
election, telling how the Democrats won the day by the aid of 
skunk-catchers and wood-choppers,b ut little did I care. We 
won the day by using his tactics and I had considerable fun with 
my experience in early day politics. 

The winter of '61-61 being very cold, many cattle died and 
this same Crockett made considerable money skinning the dead 
animals and selling their hides. One cold and stormy evening, 
quite a distance from his home, he skinned a large steer that 
had just died and was still warm. As he could not reach home 
that night, he rolled himself up in the warm hide. During the 
night it froze so hard that it was with considerable difficulty 
that he was able to cut himself out in the morning. 

An Irishman named Pat O'Halloran was a prospector and 
miner, and like most of the early day miners, was fond of a 
drink now and then. He would frequently sit around the saloons 
watching the card games until a very late hour, or rather, early 
morning hour. One dark night he started for home, loaded a 
little beyond his capacity. Not being able to keep the road, he 
fell into a prospect hole. The hole was about forty feet deep 
and Pat went to the bottom. The next morning the ditch-tender 
going his rounds, heard someone calHng and finally located old 
Pat in the bottom of the prospect hole. He went for help. The 
men got a windless and bucket and after some eflfort drew him 
near the surface. Now Pat was an uncompromising Democrat, 
and as he approached the top he noticed that a preacher, who 
was the leading Republican in the neighborhood, was one of his 
rescuers. He commanded them to lower him again and "go and 
get some Democrats to haul me out," saying "I don't want that 
black abolitionist to help me out." So they had to lower him 
until they could find Democrats enough to pull him out. We 
were eating breakfast when a man came to get my husband to 
assist in pulling the Irishman to the surface and he came back 
laughing heartily at Pat's political stubbornness. The editor 
of the Democratic paper gave him a life subscription to his 
paper and Pat lived fifteen years to read it ; he then decided he had 
enjoyed it long enough and suicided. 

We had many interesting neighbors, men and women of 
considerable force of character. In the early days of the gold 
excitement in southern Oregon and northern California a man 
and his wife, by the name of Redfield, located a homestead on 
Cow Creek. They built a house and ran a station where trav- 
elers were accommodated with lodging and food. Attacks by 
Indians were frequent, but they stayed and fought it out with 
them. In one of these attacks, Mrs. Redfield was severely 
wounded in the hip, but even this did not dismay them and they 

Page Thirty-Eight 



staid with their home and continued to fight it out. During 
the civil war she was a Union sympathizer and he was equally 
strong on the rebel side. Whenever they would get news of a 
Union victory, she would give a banquet and invite all their 
friends to celebrate; when news of a Rebel victory came, he, in 
turn, would give a banquet and call all the friends together. 
After the close of the war, he was told that he would not be 
allowed to vote and that if he attempted to do so, his vote would 
be challenged. He said, "All right" ; but on election day he was 
at the polls. He had a long muzzle-loading gun and was known 
to be a sure shot. He folded his ballot and stuck in it the muzzle 
of "old Betsy" and handed it to the clerk, who took it without 
protest and no one else challenged his vote. 

There was a German citizen named Haserich who was 
known as "Slam Bang" among the miners, because of his fre- 
quent use of those words in describing any thing or event. He 
was the proprietor of a billiard hall and lodging house. Being 
Republican committeeman one year, he called the boys in and 
told them that a Mr. Van Dueser, who was the RepubHcan can- 
didate for the Legislature, was coming to make a speech. Know- 
ing that the boys were always playing pranks, he implored them 
to be "nice" and to listen attentively to what he had to say. 
They promised to behave, but when the old man escorted the 
speaker into the hall the night of the meeting, there were about 
two hundred men there, each with his face blackened and wear- 
ing a high paper collar. The meeting proceeded without dis- 
turbance, but the speaker was not to get away in peace. The 
horse he had hired was one that had been trained to stop in 
front of every saloon and sit on his haunches.. This he did as 
usual and the boys had their fun in assuring the dignified speaker 
of the evening that his horse wanted a drink before he would 
pass the saloon. 

In early days, dishes were not very plentiful. Most people 
had only tin dishes and these were hard to get. One man, to 
avoid the risk of loss, nailed his dishes to the table. When he 
wanted to wash them he would turn the table on it's side, take 
the broom and some hot water and scrub them well ; after 
rinsing them, he would turn the table back with the dishes thor- 
oughly cleansed. 

The Rev. Childs (the abolitionist preacher) took a claim with 
two young men who were both in their teens and full of pranks. 
The Reverend often used to tell them of the fine eels he used 
to have in the East, what good eating they were and how he 
longed for one again. The boys concluded they would treat him 
to one for his dinner some day. One day they caught a rattle 
snake and skinned it. As one of them always prepared the 
dinner, the snake was cooked and sizzling hot when time for 

Page Thirty-Nine 



dinner arrived. The frying pan was put on the table, containing 
what the boys said was a nice fat eel. The minister stuck his 
fork into a portion and put it on his plate, saying, "This is the 
toughest eel I ever saw." The boys were a little dubious about 
allowing him to eat it, for fear it might poison him; so one of 
them said, "If you had seen the string of rattles on it, you would 
have thought it was tough." The preacher took the frying pan 
and snake and threw them into the Klamath River. 

Ministers were frequently the victims of the rude wit of the 
times. One day one drove into town with a team and buggy, 
saying he was the Reverend Bullock and that he had been told 
there was no church nor anything of a religious nature in the 
place; so he had come to try to convert the people and build up 
a church. He made an appointment to come and conduct serv- 
ices in two weeks. He was there, true to his promise, and most 
of the people attended the service. When the collection was 
taken up, they responded liberally. 

In time the people tired of his preaching, so a committee 
was appointed to call upon him and tell him that no one cared 
to listen to him longer; but he was not to be deterred and when 
the regular day for service came, he was on hand again to 
preach. The boys decided they would get rid of him for good. 
A man by the name of George Horner had collected five hundred 
pieces of Chinese money. He went to the store keeper who had 
the only safe in town and told him that he had five hundred 
dollars which he wanted to deposit in his safe. The old man 
took it and put it safely away. On the appointed day for church 
services, George had this money distributed among the boys and 
they all attended church, well prepared for the collection. The 
church was full and the minister's face beamed with delight to 
see so large an audience. There were a few men in the place 
who had been church members in their Eastern homes. Some 
had been exhorters in these churches and when the minister was 
fervently praying, outpourings of the spirit, "God grant it" and 
"Amens" came from all parts of the church and one could well 
imagine that they were in one of the old time Methodist revival 
meetings. 

The minister seemed to sense that there was something 
unusual in the air and hurriedly brought his discourse to a close ; 
but the boys were determined that the collection must not be 
overlooked, so two of them passed the hat among the congre- 
gation and the Chinese money soon filled the hats. The min- 
ister closed without the usual benediction and made for the door, 
where the collection was handed to him. When he saw what it 
was, he made a hasty retreat to the barn where his team was 
and ordered it ready. When he got into the buggy, he found 
that some one had not forgotten to put in a few decks of cards 

Page Forty 



and several bottles of whiskey. He drove away and was not 
seen again for a number of years. 

The town was not to be abandoned by the clergy altogether, 
however, so another minister came. It always fell to me to 
entertain the traveling ministers and this one was sent to my 
house. He told me he saw the need of work in the community 
and he thought we should have a church. He asked me what I 
thought of the outlook. I told him about the other minister 
and his collection and he laughed heartily. He preached that 
evening and left the next morning. That ended the religious 
effort in our town for a long time. 

The ministers did not have all the mishaps, however. A 
man named Thomas owned the Eagle grist mall in the Rogue 
River valley, Oregon. In 1856 he surveyed and built the toll road 
across the Siskiyou mountains. He also owned and operated 
a salt works down the Klamath river. On one of his trips 
he had in addition to his load of salt a barrel of whisky and a 
grindstone. It was late in the evening when he reached the 
Klamath ferry and the ferryman told him not to try to cross 
Cottonwood creek as it was high and dangerous. The tailings 
from the placers formed ridges and holes that were dangerous 
in high water. He cautioned him to stay in a house of his close 
to the crossing until morning, when it would be safe to cross. 
He replied, "I will cross so quick that my salt won't get wet." 
Fortunately, he had picked up a traveler on the road and was 
giving him a lift to his destination. They attempted the crossing 
of the creek and when they overturned in mid-creek this man 
succeeded in cutting the horses loose and they all managed to 
swim ashore. Then they went on to their camp, returning in 
the morning to see what they had left. The wagon and the 
grindstone were there buried in the clay, but the salt and whisky 
had vanished. 

The winter of '62 was very severe and all the stock in the 
whole country perished. Mr. Hazlett owned five hundred head 
of cattle in the fall and in the spring had about five left. He 
had to go back in March to be operated on again for cancer. He 
was quite a while in recovering. I went down in June to see him 
and he returned with me, but lived only until the next spring. 
He left me with five children and I had to build a house to 
shelter them. I traded a cow for some lumber and some of my 
friends helped me. The house was not finished inside. I used 
to take in washing, which was the only thing to be done. Goods 
were very high during the Civil war. The orchard had begun 
to bear and quite a lot of gooseberries had set on. One year 
we had three hundred pounds of them. I managed to care for 
my children and in 'd'j I married Mr. Fultz, my first husband's 
partner. We lived there twenty-seven years. I had six daughters. 

Page Forty-One 



We at last sold out and came up into Washington to live and 
settled in the town of Farmington, going into the hotel business. 
Some of my girls were grown and lived with me. We bought a 
livery business, then Mr. Fultz started a furniture business and 
finally took on undertaking. Mr. Fultz lived but a year after 
coming to Farmington and I was left with four businesses on 
my hands. All the responsibility rested on me. One daughter 
died. With the help of the girls, the house was enlarged to three 
stories. After three years one of the girls married, a year after 
another, and then another. I had one daughter in California; my 
youngest was with me. Six years after Mr. Fultz died I married 
Mr. Delaney. We still had the hotel. Then I became crippled 
with rheumatism and was given up to die, but finally recovered, 
though told I would never walk again. I laid helpless and drawn 
up for five months, with life dispared of ; but my children came 
to me, one from California, one from Lewiston, Idaho, a son and 
daughter living in the house and another in town. They all did 
everything possible and cared for me continually. My doctor 
was faithful and the neighbors were kind to come and do ever}'- 
thing they could for me. The Chinaman cook brewed good 
herbs and steamed by limbs and straightened them out and some 
of the Coeur d'Alene squaws said they prayed for me. Another 
friend furnished me a lot of Medical Lake salts, which he thought 
was good for all ailments. After five months I was carried out 
in a chair and placed in the sunshine ; then came gradually return- 
ing strength and little by little, with the aid of crutches, I walked 
and with continual effort and perseverence I at last recovered 
the use of my limbs. With my sister, who came to visit me. I 
went to visit Perrin Whitman, our old friend. 

In the spring of 1843, when Dr. Whitman returned to his 
Mission, be brought with him his nephew, Perrin B. Whitman, a 
motherless boy of thirteen years. Perrin learned the diflFerent 
Indian languages very readily and at an early date helped the 
Rev. H. H. Spalding to translate the three gospels into the Nez 
Perce tongue. He also helped to print them on the first printing 
press brought to Oregon. In the month of September, 1847, 
he was sent by his uncle to The Dalles to learn the Wascopean 
Indian language, as Dr. Whitman had bargained for the Meth- 
odist Station at that place and intended to move his family and 
belingings there the following spring. The Doctor also hired a 
man named Hindman to go there with his family and take 
charge of the place, as he had left most of his supplies at that 
point. Four days after the massacre, an Indian came to the 
house and told them that another Indian had been at their camp 
and told them that Dr. Whitman's wife and all the men at the 
Mission had been killed and the other women and children taken 
captive. Mr. Hindman was so alarmed for the safety of his 

Page Forty-Two 



family that he hired an Indian with his canoe to take him to 
Fort Vancouver for help. He had not been gone long when four 
Cayuse Indians came to the house and wanted Perrin to let them 
in. With Perrin was Mrs. Hindman, her fourteen-months-old 
baby and a young girl of sixteen years of age named Mary 
Warren. 

At the approach of the Indians Mrs. Hindman sank into 
a chair with her babe in her arms. She was speechless and help- 
less. Perrin stood at the door and talked from the inside. He 
afterward said that if he ever talked Walla Walla, he did that 
day. Miss Warren stood at the other door with uplifted ax 
and vowed she would kill the first Indian who attempted to enter. 
They tried in every way to induce Perrin to come outside, but 
he refused to go. They finally left and Perrin said that Miss 
Warren was the bravest woman he ever knew. She never showed 
any sign of fear throughout the trying ordeal. He also said 
that he was satisfied that the Indians came with the intention 
of killing all of them. In a few days Mr. Hindman returned 
with help and they moved to Oregon City. 

Perrin clerked in Allen McKinley's store during the winter 
and in the spring went as interpreter with a company of Volun- 
teers to seek out and punish the perpetrators of the massacre. 
After the Volunteers returned, he married Priscilla Parker, a 
daughter of Sam Parker of Salem, Oregon, and took up a farm 
near Salem. He and his family lived there until the United 
States military authorities went to Fort Lapwai. As they wished 
to make a treaty with the Indians, they needed an interpreter. 
The Indians refused to talk until they had Whitman to interpret 
for them. They were told by the military authorities that they 
would write for him, but the Indians said, "No. Send a man 
for him." One day as he was ploughing in his fields a man came 
and gave him a note, ordering him to come at once to Lapwai 
to act as interpreter. (He afterwards told me that "this was 
the only time he was ever taken on a bench warrant.") He put 
his team in the barn and left at once for Lapwai. 

He spent many years among the Nez Perce Indians as 
government interpreter, teacher and missionary and no one man 
ever exerted such an influence for good over them as Perrin 
Whitman. Their confidence in him was unbounded and his 
word always accepted as the gospel truth. They knew him and 
loved him and would never sign a treaty or take any important 
step without his advice. 

After an interval of thirty-eight years, during which time 
I had not seen him, I journeyed to Lewiston by stage for the 
purpose of paying him and his family a visit. The stage driver 
was Felix Warren, an old friend of mine. On our way there, 

Page Forty-Three 



Mr. Warren said, "You must stay with my wife and me tonight, 
for I know as soon as Whitman kiows you are in town, we will 
see no more of you." I said, "Very well." So we went to his 
house. We had been there only a short time when a lady came 
in. As we were introduced she said, "Why, you are father's 
old friend." She went to the door and called her son and told 
him to run to Grandpa's and "tell him his friend is here." He 
came over on a run and when he looked at me he said, "Matilda, 
where did you get your hair dyed?" (My hair had not yet 
turned grey.) 

I replied, "What is the matter with you, that you don't dye 
yours?" His hair and whiskers were almost white. We went 
to his house at once. He would not even let me eat supper with 
my friends, the Warrens. We talked over old times until two 
o'clock in the morning. Next morning early we continued our 
reminiscenses. My visit will always be a pleasant memor)^ 

When the Northern Pacific railroad was building across the 
Nez Perce reservation the Indians refused to negotiate until 
their friend Perrin Whitman was sent for to explain things 
to them. Again when the Commissioners called for Volunteers 
to go among the different factions to get their consent to the 
building of the road, not an Indian offered his services until 
the Commissioners said, "Of course, you understand that Whit- 
man goes along." Then there were plenty of volunteers. They 
said of him, "Whitman can ride all day and all night without 
sleep and he never talks with a crooked tongue." It was a 
severely hard trip in the storm and sleet that comes in the spring 
in that country ; the roads were rough and the nights cold. Not 
long after this experience he was stricken with slow paralysis 
and was confined to his bed most of the time for six years before 
his death. When Perrin Whitman passed on to his reward, a 
civilizing influence that helped to make the great Northwest safe 
for the white man went out. He was all that an honest man 
should be. As I have said before, sister and I went to visit him 
after my long and severe illness. A short time after we reached 
there, a long distance message told me that the town had burned 
and I had lost everything. Since then I have never been able 
to do anything, but have been cared for by my children. They 
have looked after me and I have had a good home and the com- 
forts of life. Once, only, I went back to visit the old Colifornia 
home. Found a few there whom I had known and received a 
hearty welcome ; many had passed over the long trail to the better 
land. Once I went to Baltimore, Md., to visit my daughter, 
and on that trip I came to realize the changes that my lifetime 
had experienced. On the vast plains, where years before my 
childish eyes had seen vast herds of buffalo roaming at will 
and where all was Indian territory from the Missouri river to the 

Page Forty-Four 



Rocky mountains, where the immigrant's wagon had toiled slowly 
and painfully along, with the menace of privation and death a 
constant attendant, railroads had thrust their slender bands of 
steel ; large cities had been built and prosperous farms dotted the 
land. Surely a magician must travel with me, constantly waving 
a magic wand before my surprised eyes ! , 

On the fiftieth anniversary of the Whitman massacre, 
through the courtesy of the O.-W. R. & N. R. R. Co., all the 
survivors were given transportation to go to the exercises at- 
tendant upon the erection of a monument to the memory of Dr. 
Whitman and his fellow martyrs. When the mound was leveled 
the workmen, to their surprise, found many bones. These bones 
were classified by Dr. Bingham and others. I went to the home 
of Dr. Penrose to assist in identifying them. A skeleton of a 
foot in a part of a leather boot, we felt sure belonged to Mr. 
Kimball, as he was the only man at the Mission who wore 
such boots. 

The skull of a white woman was, of course, that of Mrs. 
Whitman. It showed large eye-sockets. Mrs. Whitman had 
large light blue eyes. Dr. Whitman had a strong face, his 
massive chin turning up a Httle. A man's skull showed two 
tomahawk cuts. I asked Dr. Penrose to hold the skull, which 
was in two parts, together ; and as I went back in memory and 
imagined the skull clothed with flesh, I felt it was Dr. Whitman's. 
Both his and Mrs. Whitman's had been cut in two parts with 
a saw — an old trick of the Indians upon some victims. The 
teeth in the skull which I felt was that of Dr. Whitman, were 
intact and some of the lower black ones were filled with gold. 
Perrin Whitman had told me that when he had gone with the 
volunteers to the Mission the spring after the massacre, he had 
picked up a skull among others which he then claimed was that of 
his uncle. He said he recognized it by the gold fillings in the 
back teeth, as when coming West in 1843 he went with his 
uncle to a dentist in St. Louis, Mo., and that was the first time 
he ever saw gold-leaf, which was used in his uncle's teeth. 
It was the first dental work he had ever seen done and he was 
very much interested and it made a deep impression upon his 
mind. The skull with the unusually large nose orifice, we felt 
sure was that of Mr. Hoffman as he was the only man in the 
settlement having a very large nose. A very thick skull, we 
felt, resembled Mr. Gillam, the tailor. The skull of an old man, 
we decided, was that of the miller, Mr. Marsh. The thigh-bone of 
a boy about fifteen years of age, we were sure belonged to my 
brother, Frank, as he was the youngest killed. It was considered 
remarkable that the bones were so well preserved after the lapse 
of half a century. 

Page Forty-Five 



In 1916 I attended the reunion of the Oregon Pioneer Society 
and that of the Indian Volunteers at Portland. A gathering of 
1600 persons gathered in the City Auditorium. It was a most 
interesting meeting to me and kept my mind constantly occupied 
with past exteriences. Perhaps the thing that brought by-gone 
times most vividly to my mind was the trip for the pioneers up 
the Columbia Highway in autos furnished by the city. As I 
looked out across the broad river from the height of the Vista 
House, dedicated to the pioneers of Oregon, the beautifully fin- 
ished roadway, with its wonderful curves, solid masonry, gentle 
grades, faded from before my eyes and again I saw a little party 
of forlorn and homeless refugees rowing down that same river 
in the old-fashioned, flat-bottomed bateaux, thankful to be alive, 
but always hurrying to put more and more miles of water 
between them and the tragic place called Waiilatpu. The chill of 
those misty winter days again crept to my heart and I clearly 
recalled the childish awe that filled my soul as I noticed the girth 
and height of the forest trees on either side of the murky, greenish 
water that swept on past them with a strong current, leaving 
sand-bar after sand-bar a gleam of tawny color against their 
masses of dark green foliage; and I thought of a moment when 
we saw a little cluster of five log houses and knew that we could 
see Portland. Then as I looked toward the magnificent city of 
today, with its homes, churches, schools, its parks and business 
places, I felt that I must be waking from a Rip Van Winkle 
sleep and the magic of the moment almost overcame me. This 
thought I carried away with me. Surely if the way of the 
pioneer is hard and beset with dangers, at least the long years 
bring at last the realization that life, patiently and hopefully 
lived, brings its own sense of having been part and parcel of the 
onward move to better things — not for self alone, but for others. 



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